The wind at San Velluto beach rolled in lazy and warm, brushing across the tide-smoothed sand like a sigh.

Dante laid the last of the linen towels down with the precision of someone raised on etiquette and generations of old wealth. The umbrella was anchored, the insulated basket unpacked. The rosé was from his family’s vineyard in Piedmont, the olives hand-packed in brine from Liguria. Even their sunshade was lined in pearl-colored canvas.

“You’re aware this is just a beach trip, not a coronation,” Aurelio teased, wriggling out of his sandals with a grunt. He shifted Dior in his arms, careful not to wake the baby just yet. “And I don’t think Dior cares about thread count.”

“He does,” Dante murmured, slipping Dior’s sunhat on with a delicate hand. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Aurelio rolled his eyes but smiled. Dior, four weeks old and already the most opinionated of the bunch, made a soft noise as a breeze curled past. He squirmed in Aurelio’s arms, face twisting into a scrunch of protest.

“Alright, alright, tiny tyrant,” Aurelio muttered. “Trying to crawl back into my belly, aren’t you? I carried you nine months and you’re still not done living there.”

The au pair laughed—quiet and quick—as they unzipped a mesh bag full of beach toys. Bridget, already halfway to royalty in her purple swimsuit and a flower crown made of elastic and attitude, pointed at the water.

“That’s where the sea dragons sleep,” she said to the au pair, “but don’t worry, I already spoke to the queen.”

“Who’s the queen?” they asked gently.

“I am,” Bridget answered with utter certainty. “But Papa Aurelio is queen too when I’m tired.”

Aurelio bowed with one arm, Dior still nestled against his chest. “It’s a joint crown.”

Toni, quieter as always, slipped her hand into the au pair’s. She didn’t speak, but she tugged them gently toward the waterline, where waves lapped in sleepy rhythms. The au pair followed, barefoot and steady, letting the small girl lead.

Bridget ran ahead with a plastic wand. “We need shells for the royal banquet!”

Dante settled beside Aurelio in the sand, one arm brushing against his husband’s. For a while they simply watched the kids—Bridget issuing commands, Toni quietly gathering smooth stones, the au pair mediating disputes over whose bucket was bigger.

“They’re adjusting,” Dante said, his tone one of quiet approval.

“They like them,” Aurelio agreed. “And so do I. It’s hard not to.”

Dior squirmed again. Dante leaned over and kissed the baby’s temple. “He’ll be the trickiest,” he said softly. “You can already tell.”

“Like his father,” Aurelio grinned.

“Which one?”

Aurelio just smirked, leaning into his husband’s side. “Let’s both pretend it’s you.”

The day stretched on. Sand got into places it shouldn’t. Bridget turned the au pair into a sea witch with a crown of kelp. Toni pressed shells into Dior’s blanket while he blinked in dazed interest. The wind softened, the tide retreated, and Aurelio finally allowed himself to nap—shirt off, baby on his chest, hand still half-curled in the hem of Dante’s swim towel.

As the sun lowered, the family packed up slowly, wrapping towels around sticky legs and brushing sand from sleepy toes. The au pair lifted Bridget onto their shoulders. Toni followed close, clinging to a bucket full of “important royal artifacts” (mostly pebbles).

Walking up from the beach, Dante looked back just once. The waves whispered behind them. The wind tangled in Aurelio’s curls. Dior, even fussy, looked content.

And somewhere just ahead, Bridget declared, “We need a castle next time.”